


see me standing in the sunlight

by thecaryatid



Series: easy to find [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Post-Blue Lions Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Praise Kink, Rimming, Smut, let felix be soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:00:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22809787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecaryatid/pseuds/thecaryatid
Summary: “Look at you,” Sylvain says. “I never get tired of looking at you, all relaxed and vulnerable like this. No one else sees you this way. Do you know what that does to me?” Sylvain’s voice is warm in fondness and soft in reverence.Or: Sylvain makes sure Felix has a very good birthday.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Series: easy to find [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1753507
Comments: 26
Kudos: 311





	see me standing in the sunlight

Mornings are gentle these days. 

Felix wakes with Sylvain sleeping against him, breathing deep and even. Usually he gets up to train or start on paperwork at first light. Occasionally he indulges and stays, tucks himself under Sylvain’s chin, steals an hour of existing in Sylvain’s warmth. 

Today’s one of those, where Felix curls up small to press as much of himself as possible against Sylvain’s chest and then idly run his fingers through Sylvain’s beard. He still likes the feel of it, soft and bristly all at once, prickling against his palms. 

Sylvain always seems to wake up all at once. It startled Felix the first few times, but now it’s unremarkable when Sylvain goes from deep, sleep-laden breathing to huffing a quiet laugh and scooping Felix even closer with no gradual transition between states. Not that Felix can really be scooped closer, but Sylvain tries his best, draping one of his legs over Felix’s and wrapping him up in his arms until Felix is thoroughly contained. There’s nothing to stop Felix from admiring the feel of Sylvain’s broad hands on his back and warm breath against his ear, caged in the only good way. 

“Special day,” Sylvain mumbles through his thick voice of interrupted sleep. “How do you want to start your birthday, kitten?” His hand roams suggestively lower, palming at Felix’s ass. 

“Just stay here,” Felix says, not sure if Sylvain will hear it considering his face is pressed into Sylvain’s chest. Sylvain seems to get the point anyway, keeps Felix hugged gently close - with one hand still lazily groping, of course. It’s a blissful five minutes of lying still under Sylvain’s gentle touches before Sylvain gets impatient enough to press the matter, flipping Felix over with his hands pinned behind his back, thighs straddling Felix’s hips, pressing his free hand into Felix’s hair. 

Felix takes it with a yawn. It’s not exactly what he has in mind, but there’s no fear in being manhandled by Sylvain. 

“Birthday sex?” Sylvain asks, soft and eager, because of course he does. 

It’s a thought. It wouldn’t be unpleasant. But there are audiences at noon and then nothing after that, and Felix is savoring his rare, lazy morning. 

“Later,” he decides, tugging his wrists away and folding his arms under his head.

“Aw, really? You don’t want to start the day with your dick down my throat? That always seems to perk you up.” The hands are back to slowly grabbing and squeezing, stroking circles into Felix’s thighs. 

“After audiences. Just stay here,” Felix says again.

Sylvain’s chuckle warms him, and then Sylvain himself warms him when he flops down right on top of Felix, big enough to completely envelope him. Felix grunts as it squashes the breath out of his body and relaxes into it, enjoying Sylvain’s cozy weight with every inhale. 

“Just like this, kitten? You comfortable?” 

“I am.” One of Sylvain’s hands is resting on the bed in front of them; he slips his own hand under it. 

After a few minutes Sylvain reaches for the book he started last night, props his chin up on Felix’s head and keeps reading it, turning pages one-handed as the other stays where it is, fingers twined with Felix’s. 

Felix… exists. Doing nothing is rare. He prefers to be active, always working on paperwork or going to meetings, sparring or even aimlessly pacing. Normally there’s little time to contemplate doing nothing. He certainly never wastes two hours of a morning lying awake and unmoving in his own bed, listening to Sylvain breathe and watching the sunlight change from glowing golden to brilliant white as the world creeps onward. Every so often Sylvain shifts, kisses the top of Felix’s head or puts his book down long enough to brush Felix’s messy bangs away from his eyes.

They’ve held each other through nightmares, cried in each other’s arms, fucked in a hundred different ways. There are still firsts. Felix has never just rested against Sylvain with no urgency or objective, watching the dust motes drift past to the tune of slowly-turning pages. Perhaps he should find the time for it more than once a year. 

“Breakfast, Fe?” Sylvain finally says, closing his book. “Or it might be closer to lunch. Brunch?”

Felix grunts. He should eat before hearing audiences, certainly. But anything that involves leaving the circle of Sylvain’s arms is more trouble than it’s worth. “Tell someone to bring something up,” he grumbles, turning around just enough to catch the edge of Sylvain’s smile. 

“Anything particular you want?” Sylvain’s getting up and putting on enough clothes to be appropriate, leaving Felix cold and much less content. 

“For you to hurry.” Felix burrows back under a blanket and closes his eyes against Sylvain’s delighted laugh. 

Sylvain does hurry up. The late breakfast is fine. More importantly Felix curls up against Sylvain again while he eats, staying in bed despite his usual worries about crumbs, wolfing down eggs and sausage and pushing a sugary pastry over to Sylvain’s plate. There’s time afterward to lie back on the bed and pull Sylvain down again, press his face into the softness of his neck and, once again, exist. 

“You’re cuddly today, Fe,” Sylvain says, leaving a whole series of close-mouthed kisses across Felix’s cheeks. 

_Cuddly_ isn’t a word Felix would describe himself with, but he always tries to spend plenty of time tangled up with Sylvain. He’s been clear about how much he loves the calm hours they steal for themselves, even if he doesn’t usually have the time or inclination to indulge to this extent. 

“When am I not?” Felix asks, warm and bold. His eyes are closed. He’s not sure if he can feel Sylvain studying him or if he expects it so strongly it’s like a force. He’s not sure if there’s a difference. 

But there’s a thoughtful pause and then one of Sylvain’s amused sighs. “Yeah, I guess you always are. My clingy little kitten. You just love being held, don’t you?” 

There’s always the reflexive desire to disagree, especially when it comes to things like this - accusations that Felix is soft in too many unnecessary ways and has needs other than food and sleep and a sharpened sword. But it’s just Sylvain, and Felix _does_ need more, needs warmth and safety and Sylvain’s smile. It’s hard to admit, even so. 

Garreg Mach was filled with cats lying around, chasing insects, lounging in the sun, accepting gifts of food and pats from humans competing for their favor. It seemed to Felix, in the moments where he admitted to himself that a life spent focused on battle was missing something, like a nice existence. Quiet and comfortable, separate from stupid human fears.

Sometimes these days Felix feels like one of the monastery cats. Gifted with a man who's always willing to bring him breakfast and stroke away his nightmares, who's as good as an eternal pool of sunlight for Felix to lounge in.

"I like how you hold me," he admits out loud, eyes still closed. Sylvain always appreciates being told things.

"Felix. My Felix," Sylvain says, laughter hiding behind the words, breath brushing soft against Felix's cheek. "I love you so much. But you're gonna be late if you don't get up."

Sylvain’s right. It must be scarcely half an hour until this afternoon’s round of audiences. Felix rolls out of bed reluctantly, rummages around for clothes that are just formal enough to not be insulting, puts on his boots and then stares at his reflection in hesitation instead of putting up his hair. It feels as though something’s missing. 

He marches back over to the bed and deposits himself neatly on Sylvain’s lap. “Braid my hair,” Felix says, handing over a ribbon. 

“Hmm? I thought you hated having your hair braided.” Sylvain gets to work anyway, sectioning hair off into neat thirds and doing whatever making a fancy braid entails. 

And Felix does hate having his hair braided. Or, more precisely, he hates having to deal with the stuff at all beyond washing it and tossing it into a messy bun. But he doesn’t hate Sylvain’s hands working methodically through his hair, and he doesn’t hate wearing things that appeal to Sylvain, and anyone else who disapproves of his personal styling choices can go fuck themselves. It all resolves into an “I don’t hate it,” directed back at Sylvain. 

“Well, you really fooled me,” Sylvain says. “I guess I should have known better. You just enjoy being difficult.” 

Felix chuckles as quietly as he can and resists the urge to lean back against Sylvain. It would make the hair braiding harder. 

The style feels unfamiliarly tight against his scalp. Felix isn’t sure how he feels when he looks in the mirror and sees his bangs tucked away into a neat braid, leaving his sharp face unsoftened even by an uneven fringe of unkempt bangs. But Sylvain runs his fingers along Felix’s hairline, admires, leans down to kiss Felix soundly before tilting Felix’s face to and fro, examining his work. 

“It’s perfect, right? I can see your whole face like this. Those sharp cheekbones, your forehead, your ears.” Sylvain brushes the pads of his thumbs over each item in the list. It’s almost unbearable in its sweetness. 

“Anyway,” Felix says rather than make any direct response, “I have audiences.” He goes to leave. 

“Yeah, yeah, wait up,” Sylvain chides, carelessly pulling on a jacket and following. 

“Why are you coming?” It’s not that Felix objects. Sometimes Sylvain does accompany him to audiences, but he’s already spent all morning glued to Felix’s side. Sylvain gets antsy if he goes more than a day without getting out, wandering the town and talking to people. It’s one of their many differences. 

“Am I not allowed to spend your birthday with you? That hurts so badly, kitten.” Sylvain’s wearing his stupid fake pout. 

“Fine,” Felix snaps, but he grabs Sylvain’s hand and keeps holding it all the way down the hall. 

* * *

Audiences are long, as always. Somehow they’re longer with Sylvain by his side. Usually it’s the opposite, Sylvain’s knowing glances and clever interjections shaving the excess away from each hour. Today it just makes Felix hungrier for the privacy of their room and - what? He’s not even sure. Another hour of indulging in nothing? Sylvain’s hands rubbing the tension out of his back, Sylvain’s voice reading whatever insufferable book he’s started out loud, Sylvain’s undivided warmth and undiluted attention? 

Half a year after returning to Fraldarius, Felix is getting used to ruling. Meetings and decisions and crisis after crisis all fade into a rhythm that he even manages to carve spare hours out of. It isn’t contentment, not exactly, not yet. But it might be contentment someday. Once he’s had longer to breathe within these walls and the weights of fealty and responsibility settle like a warm cloak rather than a bag filled with rocks. 

It isn’t today. And once he’s made it through the last request, a dispute over who bears responsibility for a horse that was lamed after throwing a shoe on a neighboring farm’s poorly-maintained path when startled by some third neighbor’s poorly-tamed hunting dog, he’s jittery and ravenous. 

Sylvain leads them out of the hall. “Those were the only meetings, right? You have a few more hours to spend with me?” 

There’s paperwork, training, following up on a few of the more worrying problems, reviewing weekly reports on grain inventory and blacksmithing supplies, the dozens of other duties that are never done. 

“I have time,” he says instead, giving in just this once to Sylvain’s smile and the hand on his hip guiding him back to their quarters. 

“Good,” Sylvain says. There are few enough people in these halls, but he drops his voice anyway. “I have a plan. You’ll like it.” 

“Will I? What sort of plan?” Felix whispers back, unable to entirely suppress his smile. It’s not like he needs to ask - Sylvain’s _plans_ usually involve good sex, warm baths, and plenty of cuddling. Felix is ravenous for Sylvain, but in some unfamiliarly slow and gnawing way that demands hours spent wrapped up together rather than just a good training session and then a hard fuck. 

“You know, the fun sort. The type of plan where you forget how words work, kitten,” Sylvain says, lowering his voice even more. “It’s your birthday. I need to treat you extra nice.” 

“I’ve never paid much attention to birthdays.” Historically that’s been true, but Felix is on his way to changing his mind.

“No? Well, consider it a chance for me to spoil you. Pin you down, taste every inch of you, spend a whole night reciting how good you are.” 

That’s not Felix’s sort of sex, normally. Given the choice he usually prefers it rough. The best nights end with constellations of bruises that take days to fade. “You think that’s what I want.” 

Sylvain chuckles and moves a hand meaningfully from the side of Felix’s hip down to his ass. “I mean, I think you think you want to tie me up and fuck me senseless. And, like, you know how much I like that, I’m not going to stop you if that's what your heart’s set on.” 

“It’s always a tempting option,” Felix agrees. Door, keys, study; finally pulling Sylvain back into privacy, slipping properly into Sylvain’s arms and contemplating how best to sate that unfamiliar longing. 

“But,” Sylvain says, tapping a thumb at Felix’s lips, “I think you’d like being spoiled, and don’t I have such a good track record for guessing what you’d like most?” 

It’s not false. Sylvain’s suggestions generally please Felix at least as much as they please Sylvain. “I suppose I can indulge you,” Felix says, archly and amused over the flutter of excitement in his stomach. 

“Good kitten,” Sylvain says casually like he doesn’t know exactly what it does to Felix. “Do me a favor and clean yourself up? I’ve got a couple things to take care of out here.” 

“Okay,” Felix says, and apparently part of Sylvain’s plan involves eating Felix out, and he could never object to that. Despite his words, despite his unfeigned eagerness, he keeps himself pressed into Sylvain’s hug for a moment longer. 

“Ah, kitten, I’ll hold you as long as you want,” Sylvain says, speaking directly into Felix’s ear, gently winding a few loose strands of hair through his fingers. “I’ll always hold you.” 

Felix pulls away a breath later. He’s trembling by the time he finishes - as Sylvain so delicately put it - cleaning himself up in the bathroom, flushed and breathing quick and sharp, staring at his reflection and putting far too much thought in whether to put clothes back on and whether to leave his hair down. 

He hesitates staring at the mirror, shadowed amber eyes meeting their bright reflection. He trusts Sylvain. To take care of him, hold him when he needs to be held and fuck him when he wants to be fucked, never push him quite too far. But in general Felix is poor at coping with situations where he doesn’t know what to expect, and right now he has very little idea of what’s going to happen. It will be good; it will be Sylvain. Still. 

He elects to leave the clothes off, crumpled in a pile in the bathroom. He’d be stripped soon enough anyway, and Felix enjoys the way Sylvain seems eternally delighted by his boldness. So he steps out of the bathroom bare, vulnerable and shivering a little in the cool air, trying to pass lingering shyness off as unconcern. 

Sylvain’s leaning against the wall expectantly, and his habitual vague smile turns into the darkest of smirks when Felix steps out. 

“Eager, huh?” Sylvain says, dragging his gaze over Felix like the sight alone could sustain him for a year, laughing when Felix walks directly into his arms. 

“Sylvain. What are we doing?” Felix asks - well, demands - from the safety of Sylvain’s hug, pressed with his face tucked comfortably into the crook of Sylvain’s neck. His breathing is easy enough, but he can feel tremors in the tips of his fingers. It’s something he’s started paying attention to, at Sylvain’s insistence. 

“Hey, Fe, all you need to do is lie back and relax. It’s okay. And it’s okay that you’re nervous, kitten.” Gentling hands slide over Felix’s spine. He shivers. “I know, I know, it makes you anxious when you don’t know what to expect. That’s okay. I’m going to spoil you, remember? Lay you back, kiss you all over, tell you everything I love about you. All nice and gentle and slow. Is that okay, kitten?” 

Probably. It’s probably fine. It’s probably great. But he’s never done that before. “We stop if I don’t like it.” 

“Of course. We stop if you don’t like it, and then you can go back to tying me up instead. Deal?” 

Felix considers. A promise of being _spoiled,_ whatever that entails, and a promise of tying up Sylvain if he changes his mind. It’s a good deal. Sylvain is warm and present, gentle and trustworthy and always knows what Felix likes. “Fine. Come on,” Felix says, tugging Sylvain over to the bed. 

Sylvain insists on piling up too many pillows, but they’re admittedly comfortable when Felix leans back into them, supporting him all along his neck and spine. Sylvain kneels before him, still clothed, nudging Felix’s legs apart and smiling at Felix’s shiver when his hands linger on the inside of Felix’s thighs. 

“You’re wearing too much,” Felix grumbles. 

“Eager, huh? This is about you, kitten. I don't need to lose all of this quite yet.” Sylvain gentles it with a kiss to Felix’s forehead. 

“Since it’s about _me,_ I like looking at you,” Felix says, not quite a snap but certainly a challenge. 

And it’s met by Sylvain’s laugh and fingers quickly undoing his own shirt, folding it perfunctorily and tossing it in the direction of a nearby chair, where somehow it lands in a perfectly neat pile. 

“Even when it’s all about me you still take the time to fold your clothes,” Felix scoffs, but he’s sure his smile is bleeding through. 

“I thought you liked that shirt. Wouldn’t want it to get too wrinkled,” Sylvain says before shoving Felix gently down by the shoulders, digging his thumbs into the firm muscle and pressing in little circles until Felix closes his eyes and sighs. 

“All that buildup for a massage?” It’s not unwelcome, but from how Sylvain was talking Felix expected something more. 

“It’s not just a massage. I mean, a massage is part of it. Kitten, don’t you like my massages?” 

He does. Sylvain is, stupid though it feels to think or say it, very good with his hands. “Hmm,” Felix mumbles instead, and lets Sylvain turn it into whatever response he wants. 

“Here, roll over.” Sylvain coaxes Felix onto his stomach. Somewhere there’s the distinctive snap of an oil bottle opening, which seems fast considering Sylvain’s still wearing pants.

But it’s just warm, oil-coated hands settling between Felix’s shoulder blades and pressing, kneading out the tension of days of training. Felix is conscientious about stretching before and after every session, but it’s never enough to combat the tightness of overworked muscle combined with the stiffness left by hours sitting at a desk. It’s a good massage, warm and careful, just firm enough to hurt and infinite in its thoroughness. Felix allows himself to make a series of contented sighs, enough to let Sylvain know he’s doing a good job. 

“Want to start out with you nice and relaxed,” Sylvain whispers right into his ear, probably close enough to kiss. 

Definitely close enough to kiss, Felix sees turning his head to the side and finding Sylvain right there, gold and smiling. He could crane up for the kiss, but no - apparently this is about _him,_ so Felix tilts his head expectantly and waits until Sylvain leans the inch further to brush their lips together. 

“Look at you,” Sylvain says. He’s spent enough time massaging out the knots of Felix’s back that Felix doubts it’s doing much good anymore. “I never get tired of looking at you, all relaxed and vulnerable like this. No one else sees you this way. Do you know what that does to me?” Sylvain’s voice is warm in fondness and soft in reverence. 

Felix closes his eyes and doesn’t respond. It seems rhetorical and, well, he does know what it does to Sylvain, at least intellectually. It’s one thing to _know_ that Sylvain wants to spend the rest of their days together, another to believe it in the depths of his heart. And Felix does believe it most of the time, and even on the days where belief is out of his grasp he walks through the world with the knowledge that he’ll probably believe in Sylvain’s love again tomorrow. It’s harder, much harder, to believe that Felix in any way deserves this slice of happiness he’s been given. He was raised for battle and blood, and it’s easy to tell himself that _other people_ raised by Faerghus’s methods deserve something kinder. It’s hard to believe that he does. 

“Hey, kitten,” Sylvain’s hands travel up, spreading the warm oil almost up to the nape of his neck. There must be some sort of mild enchantment in it, for it to be this soothing. “Can you do something for me?” 

“Possibly.” Probably. It’s hard to resist humoring Sylvain. 

“I’m going to ask you some questions. Can you try to answer them? It doesn’t have to be long or detailed. Is that okay?” 

Questions. Always _words_ with Sylvain, never content with gesture or touch. “I’ll try. It depends on the questions.” 

“Mmm. Fair enough.” Sylvain’s chuckle casts warmth on the back of Felix’s neck and a happy shiver down his spine. “Do you like me?”

“What sort of inane question is that?” Sylvain often needs the obvious stated. This is a whole new level of obvious, considering. 

“An easy one! We’re starting slow here. Answer it, Fe? For me?” 

“I thought this was supposed to be about me,” Felix says, and sighs into the sheets. “ _Obviously_ I like you.” 

“Do you like this? You like my massages?” 

“They’re nice,” Felix admits, as though it weren’t also obvious from his relaxation and contented sighs. 

“Good.” Sylvain nudges him again, prompting him to roll back onto his back. 

Felix considers fighting, just for fun, but gentleness is nice sometimes. Sylvain’s sitting cross-legged on the bed now, only a foot away but seeming to loom much too far from Felix. “Kiss me,” he demands, content to not move from his boneless relaxation. 

This kiss is long and lingering and Sylvain presses littler close-mouthed pecks to each corner of his mouth once they part. It’s a good kiss. There’s a whole taxonomy of the ways they kiss, the ways Sylvain sighs when he’s relaxed and moans when Felix pushes a little, the way he goes boneless when Felix knots a hand into his hair and takes back control. This one’s filled with gentle laps of Sylvain’s tongue at Felix’s lips and a big hand cupping his cheek, tilting him that much closer.

“Is that what you wanted? You like my kisses?” 

“Yes,” Felix says, tipping onto his side and drawing his knees up comfortably so he can look at Sylvain, now also reclined on the bed, without straining his neck. Sylvain takes it as a request to be held, which it wasn’t. But Felix lets himself melt against the hands combing through his hair and the gradual push and pull of Sylvain’s breath. 

It’s not like they never laze against each other naked and languid without any particular urgency. But it’s rare for them to get to this level of closeness, whispered love confessions and oil-coated skin, without one of them getting an appetite for fucking. They’re both half-hard, and in an abstract way Felix knows he’ll run out of patience if Sylvain keeps on with his teasing words and confident touches. But it can wait an hour. It can approach like the tides rolling inevitably in instead of as the breaking wave that usually characterizes Felix’s desire. They can enjoy this first, whatever this is. He can rest his forehead against the hollow of Sylvain’s throat and appreciate the way they fit together, Sylvain’s arm curled around Felix’s waist like they were carved to rest like spoons nesting in a drawer.

“How do you feel right now?” Sylvain says, lips brushing against Felix’s cheek.

They don’t have to be long answers, or detailed ones. _Good_ would probably suffice. He wants to lean forward into Sylvain’s warmth until the end of the day, until the end of the year, until the world crumbles around them still curled up close, shielding each other with the shelter of their bodies and the strength of their love. He wants to let Sylvain do all the pretty things he’s promised, wash Felix’s hair and feed him platters of his favorite foods and spend every council meeting casting amused glances over whenever someone particularly insufferable speaks. He wants Sylvain’s lips to never move farther than a breath’s width from his own. 

“Safe.” Felix speaks it at a whisper, but he pulls back enough that Sylvain can surely hear. 

It’s not an answer Sylvain was expected, judging by the hitch Felix can feel in Sylvain’s chest. “That’s good, kitten. That’s right. You’re safe here, you’re safe with me. We’re safe together. Can I ask you for one more thing? I’m going to talk a lot, and I’m not going to say anything I don’t think is true. Do you think you can believe that?” 

He’s pulled even closer, tucked firmer against Sylvain’s chest with one of Sylvain’s legs slung over the tangle of his own. He can feel Sylvain’s cock pressing up through the fabric of the pants Sylvain has so rudely insisted on wearing. It seems to remind Felix’s own that he’s already spent the better part of an hour naked and open, want surging up his spine and colliding with the comfort in his heart. 

“Fine. Get on with it, Sylvain.” He grinds his thigh up against Sylvain’s cock just to make the point. 

“Yeah, yeah,” and Felix is being moved again, manhandled for at least the tenth time that evening, maneuvered back into the pile of pillows and spread out. Sylvain settles kneeling between his legs this time, which is interesting. It’s almost as comfortable as lying in Sylvain’s arms was, and much more promising for the sort of fun he’s about to have. 

Sylvain grins breathlessly down and leaves another quick kiss on Felix’s forehead, laughing and moving down to his mouth when Felix whines. It’s finally a deep, proper kiss that leaves Felix arching upwards and licking desperately at Sylvain’s mouth - Sylvain’s good at those, always knowing just what angles will always leave Felix gasping for more. He pulls away while Felix is still panting and trying to get more out of the kiss, longing to lose himself pressing deep into Sylvain’s mouth. 

“Slow down a little. Can you be patient for me?” Sylvain says, always too amused at the strength of Felix’s desire.

It’s a question that merits consideration. Patient for a little while, sure. Patient for too long, no. “Not for that long.” 

The answering laughter is soft and delighted, and it’s unfair how Sylvain’s laughter is itself enough to harden Felix’s cock further and make him squirm against his throne of pillows. “I’ll give you what you want, don’t worry. I’m just going to be slow about it, okay? I want to show you how wonderful you are.” 

Sylvain taps a thumb on Felix’s hip like he’s considering just where to start. It’s not like he has limited options, with Felix lying uncharacteristically pliant and patient beneath him, legs already spread, boneless as though he’s already been fucked out. 

“Now this,” he says, finally starting somewhere completely predictable, reaching another hand up to Felix’s hair. Sylvain’s always fixated on Felix’s hair. “This I like. It’s so you, kitten. You’re stubborn about not cutting it and not doing anything with it. Look, you still haven’t trimmed off all the split ends. I like it. I love it, the way it catches the light, the way it gets all loose and messy when you’ve been training, even the way you don’t wash it enough.” 

It’s probably unwashed right now. Sylvain doesn't seem to care as he works his fingers through it, kisses a few strands and buries both of his hands in Felix’s hair, rubbing gentle little circles into his scalp. The praise crests over Felix in a languid wave, filling him with purring contentment. It’s easy to believe that Sylvain loves Felix’s hair. 

“Do you like it when I brush it for you?” Sylvain asks, stroking through it so tenderly that Felix might die from the thought of it. 

“Yeah,” Felix says, almost inaudible over the frisson of Sylvain’s gentle hands. 

“Good. I like doing it too. I love the way you relax when I get my fingers on your scalp. It’s perfect. Now,” Sylvain says, grinning a little wickedly and trailing his eyes over Felix like he’s a feast meant for the most decadent of devouring, “what next? Your eyes,” he says, letting his gaze settle on Felix’s, and for once Felix doesn’t glance away. 

“You know how much I like your eyes, right? I can never decide on the right way to describe the color. Amber’s too orange, gold’s too bright, brown’s too drab. Whisky’s too common. They’re something like sunset reflected in a deep pond, darker than fire and twice as bright. I love the way you look at me.” Sylvain strokes the lines Felix knows are scratched into his face under them, marks of exhaustion and stress. “I love how expressive they are. You try to hide your feelings so much but it never quite reaches your eyes, you know? They always let me know how you are. They’re beautiful.” 

Another slow wave of delight, starting at his flushing cheeks and trickling down to the base of Felix’s cock. And, okay, Felix has gotten the hang of this game. Sylvain’s working his way down, reciting the things he likes about Felix. It’s - it’s - it should be too much, hearing so many soft things all at once. It should hurt like a brand in his heart. But it’s hard to summon his usual objections now, with Sylvain gazing down like Felix is the springs’ first snowmelt and the summer’s first night sparkling with fireflies and unhidden stars. It’s hard to not feel safe.

“Okay,” Felix says. He can believe this, that Sylvain loves his eyes. “What next?” 

Sylvain’s grin is an exaltation. “Do you like this?” he asks, still resting his hands on Felix’s cheeks so the thumbs are stroking the shadows just under his eyes. 

“I do,” Felix says. “And I believe you. So far.” 

“Good, good.” Sylvain trails down like that for a while, whispering a thousand praises. Felix’s nose is sharp and cute, Felix’s neck is graceful and especially pretty when it’s covered with Sylvain’s bites. Felix’s shoulders are strong, hard with muscle and sturdy from years of protecting his friends and throwing his all into training. It’s easy to take in, simple compliments about things Felix has no trouble believing - that Sylvain thinks he’s physically beautiful and physically strong, pleasurable to hold and fuck. The straightforwardness doesn’t lessen the pleasure slowly kindled in his veins, down his spine, in his achingly untouched cock.

The hard part starts when Sylvain backtracks to his mouth, gracing it with the quickest of kisses and running a thumb over Felix’s lips. “Now this I really love,” Sylvain says, showering Felix with more quick kisses between words. 

Felix doesn’t need to hear what he’s about to say. He knows how much Sylvain likes kissing him and how he likes slipping his fingers into Felix’s mouth, how he can never last more than a few minutes through Felix’s lips wrapped around his cock. It’s nice to hear the words anyway, for once spoken in consideration instead of in gasped and breathless praises in the wake of an orgasm, so Felix stays silent and quivers in the anticipation of Sylvain’s words.

And he does, the predictable praises about the exact feeling of Felix’s tongue and throat. Crass and unsurprising as they are Felix twitches at the jolts of warmth with every word, cock leaking uselessly, and finds he’s smiling while Sylvain traces his lips. 

“But more importantly,” Sylvain says, once Felix is sure he’s finished with his litany of all the things he loves about Felix’s mouth, “I really like the way you talk, kitten. I mean, you’re gorgeous and you feel incredible and sex is always great, but the way the corners of your mouth kinda tighten when you’re trying not to smile? I like that. And I love your voice. Every single time you’ve scolded me about not taking care of myself? I love that. So sharp and still so sweet, all the time, just like you. You have so many ways to say _I love you_ without actually saying the words, you know? _I like waking up next to you_ , _I want you to stay with me_ , _I feel safe around you_. I love all of those. And how snappy you are, and how you kind of whine when I’m annoying you, and the way you sigh when I hold you. Do you believe that, kitten?” 

“I,” Felix says, and stops. His fucking _voice_ . His fucking _words_ , still so often sharp and biting, so likely to come out as backhanded compliments and jagged complaints. “I don’t know,” he says, at a loss. “Really?” 

At least Sylvain’s not surprised. He doesn’t look upset, although perhaps a little sad. He traces the edges of Felix’s mouth again, lingering with his thumbs at the corners. “That’s okay, kitten. It’s hard to believe good things about yourself. But I believe that. I’m only telling you the truth, remember?”

And Sylvain - Sylvain is only telling him the truth. Sylvain doesn’t lie to Felix except in the reflexive way where he goes smooth and masked for a minute before shattering it into a more honest face. He doesn’t _try_ to deceive Felix. And Sylvain loves him, so presumably Sylvain finds some value in the shattered-glass edges that Felix isn’t sure what to think of himself. His sharpness has been a benefit, keeping himself safe and pushing away people he doesn’t want around. It’s been a detriment, wounding his own friends with deep, torn-edged punctures that never seem to heal cleanly. It’s been a part of his life embraced once and never gotten rid of, for better or worse. Sylvain doesn’t mind it. Sylvain likes it, _loves_ it. 

“Okay,” he finally says, voice tiny and breaking, Sylvain the only person alive who gets to see him so uncertain. He waits, a little afraid and a little eager for what Sylvain will choose next. “Okay. You can go on.” 

“Good kitten,” Sylvain says, and Felix squirms under the praise. “Hey, do you like being my kitten?” 

Felix startles into laughter. “Half a year and you’re just now asking that?” 

“Kitteeeeen,” Sylvain whines playful and bright, “come on. You know it’s not just about the name.” 

“Then why don’t you tell me what it’s about?” Felix says. And clearly it’s about _everything_ , far more than even silver-tongued Sylvain can hope to fit into a pretty sentence. 

“Fine, fine, I guess you get to be demanding.” Sylvain always caves so quickly. He cups Felix’s face carefully, cradling his jaw with strong, blunt fingers. “You love me, and you love being held by me, and you love doing things like this. You love being taken care of. You love knowing I cherish you.” 

Felix prompted the elaboration knowing what he’d likely hear. It’s still too much to process, too much to translate into anything but the trembling of his hands and the halting expansion of his lungs. Sylvain leans in close, eyes closed, until their foreheads knock together and Felix is sheltered by the press of Sylvain’s chest against his. 

“I know. It’s hard, right? It’s hard to bear sweetness.” 

The determined steadying of Felix’s breath will have to be answer enough. 

“How about this, kitten? _You_ cherish me.” Sylvain’s voice breaks, a seeking, doubtful noise. “You’re always trying so hard to make me happy and keep me secure, right?” his hands clutch at Felix’s shoulders like they’re looking for a solid handhold in a forest of mist. 

“Of course I do. Sylvain, you idiot, you know I do.” He drags Sylvain’s chin up for kiss after kiss, not letting another doubting sound come out of him. 

“Yeah, I know. I mean, it’s still hard to believe all the time, but I know. See? You’re so intense about all this, Fe, and you can’t like just direct that at yourself, but - look. That’s how I feel about you, you know? That bundle of protectiveness I always see when you can tell I'm scared? That’s how I love you too.” Sylvain’s never this earnest unless the issue is inescapably urgent, world-crushingly important.

Technically it makes sense. Felix doesn’t really doubt that he’s loved, bizarre as the notion still seems at first thought. He knows Sylvain cares more than enough to do stupid things like surprise Felix with his favorite breakfast and spar even when he doesn’t really want to, wake up unprompted sometimes early in the morning to kiss Felix before he gets up for his customary routine. But there’s a question of magnitude and intensity and intentionality, even when there shouldn’t be. 

Sylvain’s right that there’s an intense, protective knot of emotion living deep in Felix’s chest. But it’s also spreading roots and buds through his skin and skeleton, nourished by every one of Sylvain’s smiles and spurred to grow hardier and stronger every time Sylvain gives that self-doubting sigh and jokes about how he’s a waste of space. It’s inescapable in how its branches speared themselves through the tendons of Felix’s heart and wrap in gentle support around the arteries tracking through him, coaxing them on to keep supplying life-giving blood, partly for Felix’s sake and partly for duty’s sake and partly so he'll always be there to hold Sylvain. 

Is there a similar structure living in Sylvain’s chest, coaxing air in and out of his lungs, blossoming along the knobs of his spine and composing each of his flowery praises only for Felix? There must be, considering current circumstances. It doesn’t matter that he can’t see the shape of it in Sylvain’s eyes when he can feel it every time he laughs, a whole field of blossoms rooting them together, binding their breath. 

“I think I get it,” Felix says. It doesn’t make it easy, but it’s _there_ , a knowledge of how someone else could hypothetically look at him and want only light and love. “I believe you,” he whispers into the space between them. 

Sylvain smiles again with his mouth and his eyes and his whole body, shoulders straightening back and relaxed, the air between them empty and filled like a field seeded with yarrow years ago and left to grow into something wild, tangled, fragrant and everlasting. Sometimes the things that grow by themselves are hardest to kill and most insistent on becoming known and seen. 

“Yeah? Good,” Sylvain says, kissing the tip of his nose. It’s an annoying habit of his, except when it’s soft and thoughtless. “Here, lay back. It’s time for something easier, right?” 

_Something easier_ becomes apparent when Sylvain coaxes Felix’s legs further open again, slips a pillow under the small of Felix’s back and sprawls out on his stomach between them, grinning up sharp and sure, so clearly aware of the way Felix’s wants tend to settle after he’s been forced to feel so much. 

“Now I don’t need to tell you how much I love this,” Sylvain says, licking a theatrical stripe up the underside of Felix’s cock, “but I think I will anyway. You hear how I sound when you fuck me, right? You know how much I love your shape. You fill me up so perfectly, kitten, you’re just the right size, you always know just how to fuck me. So _pretty_ ,” he says, nosing at the side of it, sending warm sparks of pleasure up and down, Felix hitching up into the contact. But Sylvain just gives the tip one more kiss, absurdly chaste for his mouth on Felix’s cock, and moves on. 

“Now _this,_ ” Sylvain says with somehow an even smugger, wider, and more expectant grin, “is also pretty great.” He thumbs at Felix’s entrance, his hands still pleasantly slick from the oil earlier, the tip of his finger catching on the rim and just teasing. “Getting fucked by you is probably my favorite, but the way you feel around me? The way you look down when you ride me and can’t quite keep all your whimpers in? That’s heavenly, kitten. You fit me so perfectly, I’m pretty sure you’ve been molded around my cock at this point. I mean, it feels good for me, I’ll always love fucking you, but the noises you make might be my favorite part. And I'm pretty sure I can get those out of you without shoving my dick in you, right?” 

He smirks, sticks his tongue out and drags the tip of it through the air in absolute unnecessary showmanship. Felix feels the coils of his stomach clench in delighted anticipation, clutches at the bed to keep himself from hitching up toward Sylvain. 

“Look at that,” Sylvain breathes, teasing even now. “You’re so desperate for my mouth. I guess it is your birthday, kitten.” He still takes his damn time kissing down from the base of Felix’s dick, nipping at his thighs, licking at his perineum, mouthing at his balls before _finally_ letting his tongue lap at Felix’s entrance, swirling at the rim while Felix presses up into it and makes some of those noises Sylvain’s always so smug about. 

Whimpers are not him, generally. He’s good at holding back both the sounds of his pleasure and discomfort throughout other areas of his life. But Sylvain’s tongue is overwhelming enough when they’re kissing, or when it’s trailing down the side of Felix’s cock, and doubly so when he’s using it to work open Felix’s ass. 

It’s not like there’s any reason for it to feel so good, Felix thinks as he gradually quiets his whimpers and contains himself from desperately shoving upwards to twitching back and forth on the sheets. It can’t go deep enough to properly reach his core, it can’t stretch him wide like Sylvain’s fingers do, it doesn’t have the perfect almost-painful pleasure of Sylvain’s cock. 

But it’s warm and wet and undulates against him, pressing just inside his rim and licking in and out. Sylvain makes the most obscene sounds while he does, moans like he gets off by eating Felix out. Felix doesn’t see how he would, but Felix isn’t really in a state to notice anything while _this_ is going on. It opens him up easy like nothing else, so loose and relaxed he barely notices Sylvain’s fingers slipping in beside the twitching tongue until they’re pressing gently at his prostate and he _gasps_ , loses all the self-control that’s kept him quiet and still, hitches up and tries to take Sylvain deeper. 

Sylvain laughs, muffled and warm. It’s a whole new experience feeling it against his entrance, a gentle vibration before Sylvain goes back to pressing in as deep as he can go, stretching Felix open on rigid fingers and a warm, yielding tongue until his whole world involves gasping out Sylvain’s name and spreading his legs further and further to let it happen. 

Sylvain, the bastard, doesn’t let Felix finish. He pulls away while Felix is still making desperate, wordless whimpers and twitching around his fingers, and has the absolute gall to chuckle at Felix’s outraged whine. 

“I’m getting there, don’t worry. Just a few more words first, okay?” He sits back up, looking down with such fondness it almost makes up for Felix’s aching emptiness. 

“You’ll do more of that afterwards,” Felix orders. 

“Yeah, I’ll eat you out as much as you want in a minute,” Sylvain says, sliding his hands back up Felix’s chest in a gentling gesture. “Soooo, can you guess what my favorite part of you is? I haven’t done it yet.” 

Felix frowns. That means it isn’t his eyes, his mouth, his cock. It isn’t his voice or the sharp muscles of his chest, the planes of his face or his night-dark hair. What could be left? “My… hands?” 

Sylvain picks one of them up and nuzzles into it, nips the base of the palm and then kisses along the tips of the fingers. “Nah. I like those plenty, though. Strong and slender, just like you.” 

“Tell me already.” He’s done with guessing. 

That other hand never left from its position stroking circles into Felix’s chest. “Always so impatient, Fe. Okay, but you have to believe me, remember?” 

“I remember.” 

“Here,” Sylvain says, tapping at Felix’s chest again. “Right here.” 

“That’s my chest,” Felix says uncomprehendingly. “What’s special about that?” 

More of Sylvain’s startled laughter. “I mean yeah, but I’m pointing at your heart, kitten.” 

“Oh,” Felix says. The organ in question feels suddenly tight and overburdened. “Cheater.” 

“I don’t see how this breaks any rules. It’s a good heart, you know? Warm and big and sincere. You’re the most sincere person I’ve ever met, Felix. I love that about you.” 

The hand pressed to his heart is so warm and overwhelmingly gentle, like mere physical touch can make up for a lifetime of hurts. Maybe it can, Felix thinks dizzily. “Oh. Syl-” whatever he was planning on saying turns back into a wounded little noise pressed out by the weight of Sylvain’s words. 

“I know. It’s sore sometimes. But I'll always take such good care of it, I promise.” 

“You will,” Felix agrees faintly. “I believe you.” 

He’s rewarded with a satisfied hum and a long, warm hug, pushed down into the mattress by Sylvain’s comfortable weight until he slips back up and kisses Felix’s forehead, the bridge of his nose, the sharp edges of his cheekbones. “Now, I think I promised you something about eating you out.” 

“Get back down there,” Felix says, still shaky in the weight of reassurance. “And _don’t_ tease.” 

“You take all of my fun away,” Sylvian complains, but he goes back to working Felix open and licking into him, stroking his prostate and mouthing his rim at just the right angles until Felix is twisting on the sheets, whimpering in wholly unfamiliar tones, filled and desperate. 

Felix cums gasping and clenching around Sylvain’s tongue, spilling onto the hand Sylvain finally deigns to stroke his cock with. It’s hardly the most athletic sex they’ve had but he’s limp and exhausted, wrung out by too many words and a long session of teasing. Sylvain gathers him up again and presses more of those gentle kisses all along Felix’s face, apparently unbothered by his own untouched erection. 

“Syl,” Felix says, reaching for it slow and clumsy, but Sylvain catches his hand before it gets to its destination. 

“You’re exhausted, kitten. I can take care of myself for once. You rest, alright?” 

And perhaps he should argue, but exhaustion and warm safety are difficult to argue with. Awareness lingers long enough to watch Sylvain jerk himself off quick and sloppy with a wink and a _you know I almost came like five times from watching you, right?_ ; long enough to hum approvingly at a warm cloth mopping up the worst of the mess; long enough to note the bright sunlight soften to evening’s gold illumination; long enough to see Sylvain get up to draw the curtains, cast copper and gilded in the last notes of light.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday Felix! Enjoy being the subject of the fluffiest thing I've ever written.
> 
> catch me complaining about writing and fire emblem [on twitter](https://twitter.com/thecaryatid), constantly.


End file.
